Sameera's POV:
Two Years Later — Bangalore
"Sameera, the presentation deck is ready?"
"Almost."
"Done."
"And the analytics—"
"Done."
"And the UI Prototypes—"
"I said I've handled it," I cut in, a little sharper than I intended.
Silence followed. Then a small, careful, "Okay… just making sure."
I exhaled, rubbing my forehead as I looked back at my laptop. Lines of code glowed on the screen—clean, precise, predictable. Unlike everything else in life. This wasn't just a presentation. It was a full product pitch—a web platform our company was building for a new collaboration in Bangalore. And I wasn't just presenting it. I had built it. Designed the interface, worked on the user flow, fixed what others couldn't.
Code had always been my comfort zone. Give me chaos, and I'll structure it. But presentations? That was new. But my MBA changed that—late nights, endless case studies, and standing in front of people even when my voice trembled. Learning not just what to build, but how to sell it.
"Sameera, this has to be perfect. The senior board is flying in."
"I know."
"And this deal… it's big."
"I know that too."
I leaned back slightly, eyes scanning the slides again. Everything had to be perfect—no mistakes, no hesitation, no room to fall. This was my shot. If this worked, I wouldn't just be another employee anymore. I'd finally have my own team, my own space, my own identity.
It's funny. Two years ago, I couldn't even trust my voice not to shake. Now I speak, and people listen. I adapted. I had to.
My fingers paused over the keyboard.
The past slipped in.
Uninvited.
Two years.
It sounds like a lot when you say it out loud…but somehow, it also feels like everything changed in just one moment—and I've been running ever since.
I chose Bangalore without really choosing it. That email… that offer… that decision. I didn't sit and think about pros and cons. I just…
Left.
Left the city. Left the memories. Left him...
The first few months here were… brutal. A new city where nobody knew me. No familiar roads. No familiar faces. No comfort. Just traffic, deadlines, and silence at the end of every day.
I remember standing in my tiny rented room, staring and wondering if I had made the biggest mistake of my life.
Work wasn't easy either.
Because I delayed my response to the company, I had already started on the wrong foot. There was pressure—constant, suffocating pressure—to prove that I deserved to be there.
New team. New expectations. No room to fall apart.
And yet…
I still did.
There were days I couldn't breathe properly, remembering him. Days when my chest tightened for no reason, my hands trembled, and my thoughts spiraled into places I couldn't control. The breakup hurt me much more than I thought it could.
But this time…I didn't let myself drown. I learned. Slowly. Painfully. I figured out what calmed me down—cold water on my wrists, stepping out for air, grounding myself in small things. I started recognizing the signs before the storm hit.
And little by little…
The panic attacks reduced. Not completely gone. But no longer owning me.
Life… didn't stop. It moved forward. And somewhere along the way—
So did I.
I wake up to alarms I hate. Rush through mornings with messy hair and half-made coffee. Argue with cab drivers. Complain about office work. Pay bills like a responsible adult (which still feels illegal somehow).
I have colleagues who turned into friends. Weekend plans that sometimes actually happen. Late-night food orders that fix everything temporarily.
It's not perfect.
But it's… mine.
And then there's Rishi.
Of course, she couldn't stay away from me after knowing my condition back then. She moved to Bangalore a few months after I did—except, very Rishi-style, she didn't come for a job. She came with a dream. She gave up engineering. Just like that. And opened her own café.
A small, cozy place tucked into one of the quieter streets of the city. Warm lights, soft music, the smell of coffee and baked goods wrapping around you the moment you step inside.
It's her.
Chaotic. Brave. Full of life.
And somehow… it became a part of mine too.
We live together now. An apartment that's always a little messy, always a little loud, always full of conversations that swing from nonsense to heartbreak in seconds.
She still barges into my room without knocking. Still steals my food. Still reads me like I'm an open book.
And somehow…
She makes this city feel less lonely.
I stand by the window now, looking out at the never-ending buzz of Bangalore. The city that once felt like an escape… Now feels like a life I built from scratch.
I'm doing well.
…I guess.
That's what I tell people. That's what I tell myself. Because the truth is— Even after two years… Some memories don't fade. They just learn how to stay quiet.
"Two years," I whispered under my breath. "Two years of running. Healing. Becoming someone new."
I picked up my laptop again, standing up. And left the house.
The morning rush in Bangalore was already in full swing, but my brain was ten steps ahead—running through slides, code, transitions, possible questions.
And then—
I made a sudden turn.
Straight toward Rishi's café.
The bell above the door chimed softly as I walked in. Warm lights. The smell of freshly brewed coffee. Soft music playing in the background.
Home.
Well… as close as it gets.
"Look who decided to show up before a big corporate breakdown," Rishi's voice came from behind the counter.
I rolled my eyes, dropping my bag on the nearest chair. "I am not having a breakdown."
"Yet," she corrected, already pouring coffee into a cup.
I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. "It's just a presentation."
She raised an eyebrow. "Ah yes, the just a presentation that decides your promotion, your future, your team, your entire life—very casual."
"Rishi."
"What?" she grinned, placing the cup in front of me. "I'm motivating you."
"This is not motivation. This is anxiety."
"Same thing. Different packaging."
I let out a small laugh despite myself, wrapping my hands around the cup.
Warm. Grounding. Needed.
She leaned against the counter, studying me.
"You've checked everything?"
"Yes."
"Slides?"
"Yes."
"Prototype?"
"Yes."
"Code?"
I gave her a look. "Obviously."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Panic attack?"
"Managed."
"Overthinking?"
"Constant."
"Good. You're ready."
I blinked. "That's your conclusion?"
"Of course," she shrugged. "If you weren't overthinking, I'd be worried."
I shook my head, taking a sip of coffee.
God… this was exactly what I needed.
"You know," she continued, softer now, "two years ago, you couldn't even sit in a room with five people without wanting to run."
I didn't respond.
Just stared at the coffee for a second.
"And now?" she tilted her head. "You're about to present in front of a whole board."
A small pause.
"You built this, Sam."
Something in my chest shifted.
Not heavy. Not painful.
Just… steady.
"Also," she added suddenly, smirking, "if you mess this up, I'm disowning you."
I looked up instantly. "Wow. Supportive."
"Very."
"Remind me why I live with you?"
"Because you love me."
"Debatable."
She laughed, coming around to stand beside me, nudging my shoulder lightly.
"You're going to kill it," she said, this time without sarcasm.
I looked at her. And nodded.
"Okay," I exhaled, picking up my bag. "I should go."
"Wait," she said quickly, handing me a small napkin.
I frowned. "What—"
"Emergency chocolate," she said proudly.
I stared at it. Then at her.
"Rishi…"
"For after the meeting. Or during. I don't judge."
I smiled.
A real one this time.
"Thank you."
"Go," she waved me off. "Make your corporate slaves proud."
"I am the corporate slave."
"Not after today."
I stepped out of the café, the noise of the city hitting me again—but something inside felt… calmer.
Somehow managed to reach the office on time. I swiped my ID, walked in, and headed straight to my desk, dropping my bag on the chair and opening my laptop in one smooth motion.
No distractions today.
No overthinking.
Just work.
The screen lit up with my presentation deck and the open tabs of my project—code files, UI mockups, analytics dashboards.
Everything I had been building for weeks.
Everything leading up to today.
"Sameera."
I didn't need to turn to know who it was.
Divya.
I straightened slightly before looking up.
She stood there, exactly how she always did—perfectly composed. Crisp formal shirt, hair neatly tied, not a single detail out of place. There was something about her presence… it demanded attention without asking for it.
She wasn't just a manager.
She was the manager.
The kind people respected… and feared a little.
The kind whose approval wasn't given—it was earned.
"Is everything ready for today's meeting?" she asked, her tone calm but carrying weight.
"Yes," I replied, matching her tone. "Presentation, prototype, and data flow—all set."
She studied me for a second.
Not the work.
Me.
As if she could tell if I was bluffing.
"This opportunity," she said slowly, "is not just important for the company."
A pause.
"It's important for you."
I nodded.
"I know."
"If this goes well," she continued, "you won't be working under someone anymore."
My fingers tightened slightly on the edge of my desk.
"I'm aware."
Another pause.
Then, a small nod.
"Good."
That was it.
No "all the best." No encouragement. Just expectation.
And somehow…
That meant more.
"Let's move," she said, turning toward the meeting room.
I grabbed my laptop and followed.
The conference room was quiet when we entered.
The kind of silence that makes every small sound louder—the click of heels, the rustle of papers, the hum of the AC.
I moved ahead, setting my laptop down near the main screen. Plugging in cables. Checking connections. Making sure everything worked exactly the way it should. No room for mistakes.
The screen lit up. I opened the presentation slides, gave a quick check.
Navigation smooth. No lag. No broken links. Perfect.
"Good," Divya's voice came from behind me.
I turned slightly.
She was watching the screen, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
But she hadn't stopped me.
And with her— That meant approval.
I took a slow breath.
In.
Out.
Ground yourself.
The room slowly started filling up. A few senior members from our company walked in, settling into their seats, low conversations starting. Files placed on the table. Chairs adjusted. Time moving closer.
I stood near the screen, laptop in hand, every sense suddenly sharper than before.
This was it.
A few senior board members walked in, taking their seats at the head of the table.
One of them adjusted his glasses, glancing around the room.
"So," he said, voice firm, "who's leading the presentation today?"
There was a brief pause.
Then—
"Sameera will."
Divya.
Of course.
Every head turned toward me.
I straightened instinctively, gripping my laptop a little tighter.
The same board member nodded, making a note.
"Good."
Another voice followed, slightly more authoritative.
"And you'll also be representing our company for the collaboration."
I blinked.
"I'm sorry… what?"
"You'll be the presenter," he clarified, "and you'll formally welcome the collaborators when they arrive."
For a second, I just stared at him.
Represent? Welcome? Me?
A small glance toward Divya.
She gave me a single nod.
And just like that—
The weight of the day doubled.
"Understood," I managed, forcing my voice to stay steady.
Inside? My thoughts were racing. This wasn't just about presenting anymore. This was visibility. First impression. Authority. I took a slow breath, grounding myself. You've handled worse. You can handle this. The room settled again.
Silence stretching slightly—
Until the door opened.
"They're here," someone said.
Every spine straightened just a little more. Even mine. I stepped forward automatically, placing my laptop aside for a moment.
Three men walked in. Formal. Confident. Leaders. The kind who owned rooms without trying.
I stepped ahead, extending my hand politely.
"Welcome to Ardent Systems," I said, my voice calm, practiced. "Myself Sameera."
I held my hand there. Waiting. But… No one took it. A second passed. Then another. A flicker of confusion crossed my mind. Did they not hear me? Did I—? I was just about to pull my hand back—
When suddenly—
A hand reached forward from behind them. And held mine.
My breath hitched.
The touch— It was… Familiar. Warm. Firm. And something about it—
Made my heart skip in a way it hadn't in two years.
Before I could react, the man stepped forward. Past them. Into my view. Still holding my hand.
"I'm Saharsh Wankhade," he said, his voice steady, composed. "Founder and CEO of AetherEdge Technologies."
That voice. My fingers went cold in his grip. My heartbeat… uneven.
Slowly—
Almost unwillingly—
My eyes lifted from our hands to his face. And there he was, right in front of me. Saharsh.
Everything inside me—
Stopped.
Collapsed.
Shattered.
All at once.